A Christmas Miracle
by Joe King
Summary: Sequel to A Christmas Wish. Mrs. Andrews does the same thing every Christmas. It's been a tradition for years. This year, because of Harry Potter, that will change. After all, Christmas is a time of Miracles.


A Christmas Miracle

By Joe King

Every year at Christmas, I take out little Harry's picture. This year will be no different, except that this year I will have company when I do. My daughter and her two children are coming by, and I can't wait. I can't help but feel a little apprehension that their presence will make my holiday ritual impossible, but I look forward to them all the same. After all, as proven by the very picture that causes my tears on Christmas morning, family is what matters most, especially at Christmas. This Christmas, I know that the deepest wish of a little boy will hurt all the more, because I will be experiencing what he wanted more than anything—people who love him being near over Christmas.

I can't help but let my minds eye turn to him as I clean the guest rooms for my visitors. I know that my daughter and her husband won't notice the small gesture, but it's the thought that counts, right?

As I clean, I think of him. I had gathered information on young Harry Potter throughout the years, asking other children about him. What information was given didn't make me feel any better. It seems that the Dursley's saw Harry as their servant, not as their charge that needed to be protected and guided (though I already knew they didn't view him this way). He was often seen outside working; he was always trimming the hedges, watering the garden, cleaning the garage, sweeping the sidewalk, washing the car, mowing the lawn, washing the windows—just always busy doing something. I was sure that he was cleaning when he was inside the house as well. I wonder where he is now as I put a little teddy bear (one very similar to the toy that Harry received during our class Christmas party) on the bed for my grandson. As much as I wish I knew, I do not, and it is almost time for my family to arrive. Maybe I could get in my little Christmas ritual tonight, that way I can be free to be a grandmother and mother in the morning, not a sad, defeated school teacher. I look around the room for my grandchildren—a smile lighting my face as my eyes fall on an image of little Peter and Leah—and decide. I will unfold the creased picture tonight, letting my tears fall in solitude and silence as they have for years and as they will continue to do. Harry Potter was my private sorrow and my private hope. A sorrow in the fact that I failed him, no matter how hard I tried to do just the opposite; a hope in the fact that his wish—and my wish for him—may have come true.

My feet are almost silent, the shuffle my slippers make against the carpet barely loud enough to reach my ears. I'm heading to my room, my mind once again filling with images of green eyes and messy black hair.

I know where it is…where it always is, where I keep it for this time of year, my time to remember. I reach into my dressers drawer and feel around the back until my fingers finally bump into something. Gripping it gently, I pull out the picture that little Harry had drawn. The single piece of paper that had bared his soul and broken my heart, continued to break my heart every year. Clutching it to my heart, I shuffle back out to the living room, ready to curl up in my overstuffed armchair and have a good cry. I know that psychologists would say I have an unhealthy obsession with this little piece of paper, that I cling to a guilt that isn't rightfully mine—but the fact is, it wasn't. I didn't dwell it throughout the year, I didn't break into tears randomly over this, I didn't jump to conclusions and accuse parents I saw being a little harsh with their children. In fact, I rarely thought about it. He would flit across my mind from time to time and I would feel a twinge of sadness, but that the exception, not the norm. I mainly thought of him this time of year, because this was the time of year for wishes.

I sighed heavily, pulling myself from my thoughts and preparing myself to open the picture and the sadness that came with it. I had a box of Kleenex next to me, knowing I would need it.

Slowly, I began to unfold the picture—and the doorbell rang. I jumped and glanced at the clock. It was only 4:30. Alice wasn't supposed to arrive until 6…she could be early.

Glancing down at the folded picture in my hands, I sighed once more and set it on the table, standing up slowly, my old joints protesting, and beginning to shuffle towards the door.

"Yes?" I asked, opening the door and looking out at my guest. "How may I…" my voice trailed off when I took in the man on my doorstep, grinning at me a little sheepishly with a wrapped present in his hands. I blinked, but he was still standing there, grinning at me.

"Hello, Mrs. Andrews…It's been a while, hasn't it?" he said, his deep voice barely registering. "You are Sarah Andrew, right? I mean, it's been around twenty years."

I still didn't say anything, just stood there staring.

"Er…maybe this is a bad time?" he asked unsurely. "I just came to drop this off and say thanks, but if you're busy…well…" He shuffled from foot to foot, looking a little uncomfortable. "I'm not sure you even remember me, but—"

I cut him off by whispering. "Harry Potter." It was barely audible, but I was still shocked, still staring at this tall, healthy, happy-looking young man and trying to reconcile him with the sad, underfed, tragic little boy I had once taught. There was no doubt that he was Harry Potter, however. He had that same messy black hair that stuck up in the back, that same scar you'd find under the fringe of hair on his forehead if you looked, and the same eyes—except that they were happy and content, not sad, as I was used to seeing them.

"Yeah," he grinned. "I'm Harry Potter." He seemed to find something funny about reassuring me that that's who he was. "And you _are _Mrs. Andrews, right?" he questioned again, looking at me. I was nearly seventy now and had changed quite a bit from the fourty-seven-year-old he had known.

"Yes," I said quietly, still staring at him as he stood nervously on my doorstep.

"Oh, well…I just wanted to say…Thank you, for everything you ever did for me. I didn't realize what you were doing for me at the time, but looking back…you were taking care of me how you could. Making sure I understood what love was. I owe you, a lot. I think you kept me hopeful, Mrs. Andrews. And back then…that was everything. Even now, it's more important that I can fully let you know, I just wanted to say that. Thank you, for everything…" he stumbled a bit in his speech, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Here," he said suddenly, shoving the present at me. "I got this for you…to say thanks, and Merry Christmas, of course," he said, grinning now. I couldn't help but smile back. He didn't just look happy…I think he really was! That meant more to me than his present…that _was _his present. It might not have monetary value, but it was worth the world. Now _he_ was the one giving _me_ hope, because my wish had now come true. He'd had a better life, been saved, been loved.

I stood back a little and gestured inside happily. "Come in, come in! I want to talk for a little bit, Harry. As you said, it's been a long time. And you're right, I was trying to care for you, so I want to ask a few questions," I told him, shutting the door gently behind him as he came unsurely through my door, standing on the matt a little awkwardly and looking around. "Come to the kitchen…I'll make you tea," I told him, heading that way myself.

I heard him follow me into the kitchen and busied myself with making tea, smiling happily to myself all the while. This really was a marvelous surprise. My student, my special, hurting Harry, was back, even if just for a short hour. It put a slight spring back in my step.

When the tea was done, I placed a steaming cup in front him, sitting down and sipping my own, smiling at him over the rim of my cup.

"So, Harry…Where did you actually go to school, since St. Brutus's doesn't actually exist and you're no criminal even if it did?" I asked him curiously.

He stared a little, no doubt wondering why I know so much about the Dursley's cover. I don't he knew that my caring for him went that far. Maybe those psychologists are actually right…maybe I am a little obsessed, but not dangerously so.

"Well, I…er, I attended a boarding school in Scotland. The same school my parents went to, actually, which was why I got in, in a way," he told me, smiling fondly. I could that this school of his was important to him, and I was glad. I was sure it had been a home to him, since where he lived definitely wasn't.

"Oh, you're parents went there? Learn anything interesting about them?" I asked, smiling. I knew that most people who attented their parents Alma Maters learned a thing or two…sometimes things they wish they hadn't learned. I hoped that Harry had. Perhaps his parents had become more than just a random memory or picture he drew himself.

"Yeah, quite a lot, actually. My dad was a really talented athlete—I inherited his ability, too, as I played on the team. My mum was really talented as well, and one of the few girls that wasn't automatically infatuated with dad. Actually, she pretty much hated him. He was a bit conceited when he was younger, and a little bully, in some ways. She didn't like that. He grew up, though, and they fell in love. They were really great people—my teachers, a lot of them anyway," he was smiling in a very amused way again, finding something he wasn't telling extremely funny. I was curious, but I let it slide. It was just enough to have him here, with that smile on his face. "I have fond memories of the two of them now, stories that I was told. I have fond memories of my godfather, too, for that matter," he said, smiling into his cup thoughtfully.

"Godfather?" I questioned. If he'd had a godfather, why hadn't this godfather saved him from the Dursley's? If he'd other family out there, people who had known his parents…why hadn't they checked on him?

"Yeah…Sirius. He was a great guy…" He sounded reminiscent and sad. He had a smile on his face that fit his tone. "I met him my third year—met another friend of my dad's then, too, Remus, both were great—anyway, Sirius was really cool. I mean, he had it pretty bad. The whole convicted-murderer thing was working against him and the government wasn't too interested in the fact that he was innocent, but he cared about me. Wrote me letters and gave me advice and such," Harry said with that same sad, reminiscent smile on his face, chuckling a bit.

I blinked. Convicted murderer? Innocent? "What?" I asked, speaking my thoughts out loud.

"What what?" he asked. I simply gave him a shocked look, and he laughed. "Oh. You mean Sirius? He was framed for murderer, but there was never an investigation, he was just chucked in prison. Some justice, huh?" he asked, and there was a hard edge to his voice. His eyes had steely glint in them. He looked very little like the scare little boy that I remembered and much more like a determined, driven man. He had changed, for the better. The Dursley's had not defeated him. Their hate and ill-treatment had not defined who he was. He had risen above it. He was stronger. I felt my own heart swell with in me, pride and joy and hope mixing together as I stared at him. "Anyway…he was innocent. The government know that too, now." Something about the way he said it, the hardness in his voice or the way he gripped the cup a little tighter, let me know that there was something more going on. My studying of my students, looking for the signs of mistreatment had trained me to notice everything. I picked up most things, now, something that my children and grandchildren liked picking on me for, though it had annoyed them often, too, with the way that I had caught them in things before because of it. It served me now, too.

"What happened to him?" I asked quietly. He glanced at me, surprised, one black eyebrow rising over green eyes that even now, with a pain remembered darkening them, were lighter than they had been at age seven. "You talked about him in the past tense. Teacher, remember?" I said, smiling. He chuckled and took a sip of tea. He was silent for a few moments. I wondered if he was going to answer and was about to ask another question when he spoke up.

"He died. When I was fifteen," Harry said shortly, staring into his cup. His voice was a bit…darker, now, and I knew that there was more to the story. I also knew that I would not get the whole story if I asked. It was not something Harry would talk about, that much was clear from the stiffness in his shoulders and from the white-knuckled grip he had on is teacup. I understood. There were some things that were better left unsaid and for Harry, this was one of them.

"Oh. I'm sorry," I told him sincerely. He glanced up at me and offered a smile. "You barely knew him, then. But at least you knew him, right?" I asked, smiling myself and trying to offer what comfort I could. He smiled at me, too, and I was startled to realize it was a comforting smile. _He_ was comforting _me_. That, more than anything, was proof that he was stronger than the Dursleys. If he was strong enough to reach within himself and offer help to others, if he was strong enough to give love when he had not received it…He had won. My smile widened as I stared at him, staring into his teacup again.

"At least I knew him," he agreed quietly. We sat in silence for a few moments more. I had so many questions I wanted to ask, so many things I wanted to know…and yet, even with all of that bubbling up in me and threatening to spill over, I was content in a way I had not been in years. I had always worried, always wondered…Harry had been my secret pain, my secret failure, and at the same time my secret hope…And now, here he was, and my hope had been fulfilled. He was strong. He was happy. He was undefeated. I could be happy in the rest of my life with just this image of him smiling, truly, genuinely smiling, into his cup of tea.

He glanced up at me suddenly, grinning. I couldn't help but grin back. I remember, when he was seven and barely ever smiled, thinking that his smiles could light up a room. This grin, however…well, it was contagious and the largest smile I had even seen on his face. I felt joy bubble up within me at the sight of it. "You remember, that time on the windowsill, with the birds, Mrs. Andrews?" he said. My mind automatically pulled up the memory—how could I forget it?—and I nodded. "You told me that robin could love a sparrow, and that would make them family," he grinned. I smiled, too. It did sound foolish, now, with both of us being adults. "Well…I doubted it then. I didn't believe it. I was…I was the ugly duckling from that story you read us once, but I never expected to be the swan at the end, you know?" I did know, more than he could imagine, and it hurt to know. He went on. "But it turned out…better than that. I wasn't just a swan…I was something more, in the end. My family, the ones that I really belonged to, were something more…something magical," he grinned as if at a private joke. "The ducks didn't recognize it until too late, when I had taken flight," and again, he chucked to himself, "and left them. When I joined my real family, others that, while not being related to me by blood, were more of a family to me than I ever dreamed of having, I found out that the ducks…well, they weren't worth worrying about. I didn't need their approval. I was…not of them." He smiled introspectively, then glanced at up at me. "You were right, Mrs. Andrews," he said, studying me this time, his green eyes sparking with happiness. I was fairly sure my eyes were sparkling with tears at this point. "A robin _can_ love a sparrow and that makes them family." He glanced back down. "And you know what, Mrs. Andrews? That sparrow can love the robin right back. And together…well, together they can fly away from the ducks altogether.


End file.
